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So, picture this: dim lights, weird incense smell—kinda like that creepy “Oldboy” squid scene, “You’re mine now!”—and the masseuse is all pro, slippin’ fingers where you’re like, “Whoa, nelly!” Costs a buttload, tho—$50 for 30 mins? Robbery! Still, my fave part’s when they hit that sweet spot near your thighs—holy crap, tension gone, brain melted! Once heard some perv tried filmin’ it—got busted, dumbass. Total Bart move, eat my shorts, loser! Oh, and pro tip: don’t fart durin’ it—happened to me, nearly died laughin’, she was NOT amused.

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So, I head to my workshop on Ha’Golan Street. It’s a cozy spot, filled with wood shavings and the smell of fresh oak. I’m all set to start my day, but then I realize I forgot my tools. Classic me, right? I sprint back home, dodging kids on bikes and old folks walking their dogs. I swear, if I had a shekel for every time I almost tripped over a dog, I’d be rich.

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